


Five Times Yours

by tempered_rose



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Tudor Era, Alternate Universe - World War II, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feminist Themes, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 01:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16052780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/pseuds/tempered_rose
Summary: Fic-ception on repeat; or where five different soul-mate AUs merge into one giant soul-mate AU.





	Five Times Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunspot (unavoidedcrisis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavoidedcrisis/gifts).



> Dear Sunspot, I hope you like this. I really, really appreciate your letter as that helped me get a better understanding of hopefully what you were looking for. I really hope this is your cup of tea as I also enjoy a good AU. I'm also a history nerd so... ahem. I really hope you like it!

‘According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves…and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment.’

\- Plato, The Symposium

* * *

**Five.**

He was called Claudius and he served at the Emperor’s pleasure, though he did not care for it. He dreamed of his home in the far away north, the boundary of the Empire. It was a place where it rained incessantly in the winter and the sun was never too warm on his fair skin. He stood now behind the shoulder of the Emperor in the grand arena of the Colosseum and watched below as a solitary gladiator tried to fend off a lion with only a spear and no shield.

The crowd exclaimed their joy or their contempt as they watched the brave fighter below. Claudius watched too and felt something related to kinship toward the fighter. He admired their form and footwork, though he felt their technique could do with some sharpening. There was something else he felt also, like an itch in his chest that he would never be able to scratch, that irritated him more with every close lunge of the great beast’s claws.

The Emperor pounded his fist on the arm of his chair when the spear from the fighter pierced the lion for the final time. The great beast died with hatred and anger for its murderer but the fighter did not revel in their victory unlike most others. It did not seem to matter to either the crowd, nor the Emperor as they applauded. Claudius watched as the spear was removed, cleaned, and they leaned into it for their own support while the crowd voiced their delights. The fighter was wounded, Claudius could see, but it did not appear so bad that they would die; they would not be walking properly for a while.

The Emperor addressed the arena. “We are entertained. What is your name, brave gladiator?”

“Kassandra.” The fighter said, removing their— _her_ \--helmet and a ripple of astonishment went through the crowd. Claudius could see the Emperor’s jaw twitch at her gender’s revelation. It was not uncommon for women in the Arena, but they did not usually compete in front of the Emperor and not against lions, but typically one another.

“Very well, Kassandra. You should be renamed ‘she who dances with lions’.” The Emperor lifted his hand to dismiss her as the crowd chuckled at the Emperor’s remark. Claudius watched as the woman left the arena under her own power but he could see her limp even from over the Emperor’s shoulder.

The rest of the games were spent watching others try and, for the most part, prevail against other beasts found from the wild reaches of the Empire, though there was more than one gladiator that could not tame their creatures and paid their price for it. Claudius remained outwardly unaffected for all of the contests, though he despised the days that the Emperor wanted to attend the arena because he did not care for the unnecessary cruelty. Today, however, he kept thinking of the lion-dancer. The Emperor made his exit when the sun was high in mid-afternoon so that he could retire before dinner in the Imperial palace. Claudius fell in line with the other praetorian guards who were all sworn to protect their leader as they returned to the nearby Palatine Hill.

It was many hours into the night before Claudius was released from duty. He still had a recurring itch he could not find the source of every time he thought of the female fighter. To free his mind, decided to take a walk, despite the wolves who called into the night. Claudius didn’t wish to be near the arena again so soon, and so walked away from it, heading toward the river instead. The other soldiers on duty recognized him immediately and came to attention as he walked past them with their formal greeting. He merely nodded in their direction as recognition and continued on his way unimpeded.

At the Tiber’s edge, he stopped and closed his eyes. He could smell wet earth underfoot and the filth of human residency floating by. Claudius could hear the lap of the water by his feet and the rush of the current further out as it flowed onward. The Tiber’s disappointment contrasted sharply with the spray of the sea he remembered from his childhood; the smell and taste of salt on his face which would splash him with frigid water if he were too close. Claudius had not known life in his village for very long, only a handful of mild summer’s, before the Empire came and stole him away from his mother without any choice. Claudius had grown to the point where he could not clearly remember her face, nor those of his siblings or father. Claudius frowned in the dark as he always did when he tried to remember _before_.

The moment by the river then changed rapidly.

He went from his eyes closed trying to remember his family to them being wide open, spinning with sword in hand to face the person nearly-silently coming up to him. Claudius recognized the limp and head of short dark hair as the moonlight revealed the fighter from earlier. He loosened his grip on the sword marginally, but kept it at the ready. He did not speak and waited to see what the lion-dancer wanted.

“You are Claudius, are you not?” She spoke with an accent, one he thought he could recognize from Africa, or the region further east of the Empire. “One of the Emperor’s favorite guards.”

He straightened at the way she asked, like it was an accusation rather than a difficulty attained title.

“And you are she who dances with lions.”

“I am she who was forced to murder a poor creature with no more reason for being there than I.” Claudius did not disagree, but he remained silent. He assumed she had simply walked the perimeter of the Hill to avoid detection by the guards, or else she had woven in the gaps of their patrol. “I wish to speak with you of a matter of great importance.”

“Speak then.”

“You miss your homeland do you not?” Claudius’ head tilted as he regarded her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I know you are no Roman. I know you because I have come to Rome to find you.”

“Why?”

“Your sister was taken too, the day you were abducted. Do you remember?”

That day was fuzzy in his memory, but he surely would have remembered such a crime.

“You are mistaken. I alone was taken from my family. And you have not yet answered my question.” He gestured with his sword and readjusted his grip on it.

Kassandra shook her head and took a step closer despite his weapon. “Remember back to that day, great commander. You went first, but then they turned back. Took your sister and you both were parted from your family. Her name was Moina was it not? And your name is not truly Claudius, is it Ceallachán?”

A name floated into his memory then, the soft image of a face with blonde curls much like his and his own forgotten name on this strange woman’s tongue. The grip on his sword tightened.

“How do you know this? Who are you?”

“Moina was taken and sent through the fires of pain and suffering all women of misfortune must face in this world. She reached the outer realm of the Empire where I am from. We were companions while serving as slaves in one of the Roman governors households in Egypt. She died there, did you know? Died telling me your name and to find you to let you know of her fate as she tried to birth to the child the governor gave her against her will.”

Anger and sorrow burned brightly in his belly and he could see a matching fire in the huntress’ eyes. He loosened the grip on his sword even as a pain he did not know he had the depth to feel began to wound him.

“Why tell me this?” He did not doubt her. The proof of her statement was in his very name and that of his sister’s.

“Because, great Ceallachán, you can help me. We can help one another. We can stop this, fix it before more innocents are taken both as babes and as victims by the sword.” Her tone turned pleading, as did her eyes. “We must stop them, the Emperor and all of his legions and governors who would take innocent women against their will.”

“How? We can’t stop the Empire.” He realized his slip of the tongue too late; he had side-stepped any qualms about murdering his Emperor and the fire once simmering in her eyes grew to a burning blaze. He put away his sword completely as she stood directly before him.

“ _We_ can do anything together. Help me get rid of that foolish man that plays at being a great ruler, who is mad with the power of it. Help me chase away those who would harm the innocents, and help me bring order back into this world of misery and destruction. Help me, great Ceallachán. You know it is meant to be. _We_ are meant to do this.”

He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword as he looked into her eyes. The itch burned more than before and it mated perfectly with the wildfire of hatred in her eyes.

“We would die if we fail.”

“Then we shall not fail, great commander.”

\----

After many months of strategy and secrecy, it took most of one highly-trained auxiliary unit to fell their plan in the halls of the palace. All that was left after the pair’s murderous foray of treason were the both of them, the treasonous Celt and the murderous Arabian lion-dancer, dead side by side.

The fallen commander was forever reaching for she who killed the Emperor as their blood pooled on the palace floor, intertwining scarlet on the tiles.

 

**Four.**

It was no secret the English hated the Spanish with more than just fire burning in their bellies. It was a deeply founded hatred of their religious zeal, of their black-clothed clusters of Catholic worshipers, and the ever-present superiority complex that they were better than those of England. With Philip being married to their queen, the Spanish acted as though they were in power, and every Englishman knew it to be true. It was more than enough to raise the hackles of many a red-blooded Englishman and yet they could say nothing. Queen Mary would have them accused of being Protestants, or worse, and then burned, or otherwise tortured for their wicked tongues. So the English branded their hatred in their glares and as poor as they dare risk it manners, and waited, prayed, for a savior that would lead them out of such Hell. Whispers of another copper-haired daughter of Henry were scarce, but they were there in the shadows.

It did not stop the marriages planned at the Queen’s leisure to cement her power and those of her favorites to appease the lords of her new husband.

“She’ll be a witch, you’ll see. Vexing to here and beyond with her complaining and praying and spying against the us.” He, then called Charles, complained as his doublet was buttoned up by his mother.

“Witch or not, you must do this. We will all starve if you don’t.”

Charles felt the bindings of his duty, the only remaining male in his family and thus holder of the title, conspiring against him. He truly had no other choice as his mother said. If he didn’t, their family would be cast out of their hereditary estate and he would most likely be thrown in the Tower, or worse. Their lands would be forfeit to the Crown and their honor would be ruined. He had to do what he could to survive in these times especially as his family had been loyal Yorkists in the Cousin’s War more than half a century ago, and then had fully supported Henry’s Reformation only twenty years before and that now went against Queen Mary’s policies favoring the Catholics. His family had a mark on their head for being contrary to the Crown at the worst of times and that was too dangerous a moniker for nobility.

He sighed and put on his shoes and then fine jewels for the groom before he turned for his mother’s approval. She had a gleam in her eyes of maternal pride but he couldn’t help but wonder if she wasn’t wishing he was marrying someone else. He knew that he was and he had preferred someone English or even at this point, Scottish. A Scottish lass would have kept him on his toes, instead of having to protect himself against spies in his own home.

The bride chosen for him was one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting and had come from some noble family in Spain somewhere. Charles really hadn’t been paying attention to her biographical details while feeling coerced into matrimony by the archbishop who had been sent to dispatch the news. Now, he would have little time to continue dwelling on it as the happy event was that very day. Charles was to marry this woman and he didn’t even know what she looked like, not that it mattered for all the good it did him.

Charles, his mother, and two sisters departed from their estate and arrived at the Cathedral nearly an hour later. The ladies stepped down from the litter as he dismounted his charger. There was little left to do but Charles allowed himself to be put through the rest of the preparations of the day without commenting, or saying much of anything to anyone. The Spanish contigenant were equally silent as they whispered to one another in their own language. Before long, he was standing in front of the bishop and he turned to see his bride.

He paused.

A noble lady of good breeding stock, indeed. She was _beautiful_ and carried herself regally. He almost forgot that she was not English for her manner, but then he studied her height and beauty and Charles felt his mouth go dry and had the sudden urge to clear his throat. He straightened his posture as she arrived before him. He was pleased to see that she was nearly equal to his height and looked about as thrilled at marrying him than he was her. She barely touched him as they proceeded through the ceremony, pledging themselves to one another until death did them part. Or an annulment like King Henry, but Charles didn’t say that outloud.

The wedding party moved through the cathedral and the reception was held on the grounds of the giant structure. Charles was seated next to his bride, Catalina, and they did not speak even as the others tried to make light of the joyous occasion with the festivities. Charles allowed the silence to continue for much of the afternoon but after an hour or so had passed, he turned to his bride.

“Do you speak English?” He asked in poor Spanish. With an annoyed look, Catalina turned toward him and replied, “Better than you speak Spanish.” in his own language.

Charles could feel the apples of his cheeks redden as he cleared his throat. She had a lovely voice, he realized sitting so close to her.

“Would you care to dance?” He asked, still red from embarrassment.

“No thank you.” She replied and her lips pressed together more out of irritation than anything, he guessed. Charles leaned back in his own chair and suppressed a sigh. She was going to boss him around, he could see it and felt annoyance stir in him.

They were silent for a while longer until one of the afternoon’s entertainments began. It was a display of dueling swordsmen and Charles knew it would be the highlight of the day. It wasn’t but a few seasons ago that he himself participated in these types of events at various noble weddings. He was considered an above average swordsman and often had dueled for pleasure and sport. As he watched the two men before him, his eyes stayed on their form and the muscles in his arm flexed as he wished he were the one parrying or lunging. He could hardly take his eyes away from the two and wouldn’t have, if his lovely new bride hadn’t made a noise of complaint under her breath at a particularly poor swipe from one of the dueling men.

Charles glanced over and saw that she took hadn’t taken her eyes off the dueling pair either.

“This entertains you?” He asked, in disbelief.

“It would if the gentleman in red would learn to adjust his footwork so he isn’t taken the weight of the blow to his body.”

Catalina finally looked at him when Charles did not comment or turn away from her. He was staring at her and not at the event before them, despite a very illegal dueling movement that caused other men in the crowd to hiss. It was the Lady Catalina’s turn to blush under his scrutiny and Charles was quick to speak as her eyes lowered away from him.

“Have you ever taken up a sword, my lady?” He asked and reluctantly she nodded still avoiding his eyes.

“I know it’s not very ladylike or proper, but--”

Charles grinned brightly and reached over to squeeze her hand, causing her to look startled and freeze underneath his touch. “We shall test one another in the morning then. My blade against yours. And have no fear, my lady. I will not harm you.”

The Lady Catalina looked at him then and he saw the ice melt as a spark grew in her eyes that had been absent all day. “That is a pity, my lord. I cannot say the same to you.”

Charles grinned and released her hand that he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding. Suddenly, he was looking forward to this marriage a lot more than before.

 

**Three.**

The Lady Cassandra remained by the wall at the Duchess’ debutante ball. Any gentleman that approached her to sign his name in her dance card was given a sharp glare which seemed to deter the more faint-hearted men and a sharp word of rebuke was given to those who dared approach nearer. Even those braver gentlemen had begun to dwindle as the evening carried on. She was slowly inching her way toward the balcony windows for some fresh air when she was impeded by the bulk of a man returning from the balcony.

“My apologies, my lady.” He replied cordially and Cassandra found him handsome, despite the redness of his blushing cheeks. “Please,” he stepped aside and gestured for her to go around him and to the balcony.

“Thank you.” She replied quietly and started to do so. It wasn’t until he had shifted position and she was nearly away from him that she heard a sound that most every young lady cringes to hear: the ripping of fabric. Both Cassandra and the gentleman looked down and saw his foot on part of her train. If his face had been red before, it was positively scarlet now. In the only act of mercy for this embarrassing moment, the orchestra was loud enough no one seemed to notice.

Cassandra positively ran through the balcony doors before bending to look at the damage the gentleman had inflicted. He had the manners to follow after her, but she was ignoring him to take stock of his handiwork.

“Forgive me, I’m so sorry.” He was blabbering and he was blushing from his face to his neck.

“They make these horrid dresses far too long.” Cassandra replied. It wasn’t an acceptance of his apology but nor was it a dismissal. 

“It looks wonderful on you. At least, it did until I ruined it. Not that you don’t look lovely anyway.” The man fumbled through another apology and Cassandra ignored him as her own cheeks warmed at the compliment which she did entirely ignore.

Due to the layers of petticoats and the cage surrounding her to support them, there was little Cassandra could do to fix it, even once she managed to see the damage. She sighed and looked at her maligner. She noticed his handsome appearance and his military dress uniform. He was important, this accoster of gowns, and he could be useful, she decided.

“Do you sew, sir?” Cassandra asked, interrupting his continuous apologies.

“Pardon?” He asked, blinking in surprise at her question. “Do I sew? Yes, I suppose I’ve mended a button or two in my day.”

“Good. Then you will have to do me this service, since I cannot.” Cassandra pulled from her wrist bag a needle and thread and produced them to him. “I am always prepared,” she said by way of explanation at his startled look. He slowly seemed to come to more of his senses as he recognized he had a task in hand that he was able to accomplish.

He knelt behind her and found the rip in her gown. He grimaced at the damage he’d done and quickly set to work at trying to repair it.

“This won’t be very straight, I’m afraid. Your seamstress will be after my head.”

Cassandra, facing forward and growing anxious that someone might walk out and get the wrong idea, tried to ignore the occasional tugging on her gown from behind.

“Better her than me,” Cassandra replied brusquely.

The man was quiet a moment before asking. “What else do you have in that bag of yours? A pistol, perhaps?”

“No, not a pistol.”

“But some other sort of weapon?”

“Are you going to give me cause to use it if I did?” Cassandra asked looking over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. The man blushed again.

“Of course not. I was… God above, I was trying to make a _joke_. Whatever weapon you do or do not have, you may use to brandish against me for ruining your dress.”

Cassandra enjoyed his embarrassment but did not laugh, nor let herself smile. “Your jokes need improvement, sir.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree.” He replied. “I’m not the one to go to for humor, I’m afraid.”

“Neither am I.” Cassandra replied and looked forward again. They lapsed into silence for a few moments before one more tug and then the gentleman was standing again. He brushed the knees of his trousers while looking at his repairs.

“I may have a career after the military after all.” He said, returning the needle and the last of the thread to her. Cassandra returned them to her bag and strained again to look at his effort. All in all, the seams were crooked but at least there was no gaping hole to reveal her petticoat anymore.

“Thank you.” Cassandra replied and looked at him again. He really _was_ handsome with his full head of blond hair and dark brown eyes.

“It truly was the least I could do, my lady.” Cassandra wrinkled her nose at that and he laughed at the gesture. “You don’t like being addressed as such?”

“It’s so...formal. It’s unnatural.”

“I completely agree.”

“Do people only refer to you, or your title, major?” He raised an eyebrow but Cassandra gestured to the epaulettes on his uniform. “The correct rank for you, is it not?”

“It is, miss. And to answer your question, yes, they generally do.”

“And don’t you despise it?”

“I suppose I hadn’t given it much thought before.” He rubbed the back of his neck as they lapsed into another silence again. As it stretched, they regarded one another closely. He, again, was the one to break the moment between them, only this time it was the quiet that was ruined rather than the moment that continued to linger.

“Why were you coming out here?”

“For some fresh air. And...to get away from the more persistent gentlemen.”

“Are you not in search of a husband?” He asked and then exhaled. “Forgive me, that was forward.”

Cassandra answered him anyway. “All women my age are in search of a husband unless they already have one. That does not mean I _want_ one.”

The major smiled. “And not all men are in want of a wife, yet it is required of us to find one.”

“But if a gentleman waits to marry, nothing is said for it. Yet a lady is considered a prude or a spinster if she is not wed by thirty.”

“More like twenty-five.” He replied with a smile and Cassandra was startled into a laugh as his smile grew.

Softly, she asked, “do you not want a wife, major?”

“I wouldn’t mind it, I suppose, _if_ I found the right person. As I have yet to meet her, however…” He trailed off then and Cassandra heard what he hadn’t intended to say. He looked away from her and Cassandra wondered if he _had_ met the right person and circumstances had taken her from him.

“I see. Well, I thank you for assisting me in my troubles.”

He seemed to return to her as he inclined his head. It was brief however, as he again appeared to look lost inside his own head for a moment. Cassandra gave him a smile and started to turn to head back into the ball when he reached out and caught her lightly by the elbow.

“Won’t you dance with me?” His cheeks started to redden again but Cassandra nodded her agreement, surprising even herself at her agreement.

“Just the one.” She said and he looked relieved that she had accepted. He offered his arm which she took as they started back into the ball together. “May I know your name, major?”

“Certainly. Major Cullen Rutherford, at your service Lady…?”

“Cassandra.” They smiled at one another and Cullen pulled her into the beginning steps of a waltz as the orchestra began to play Strauss.

 

**Two.**

He was going to be shot for this, or worse. He could hear the dogs in the forest sniffing out his tracks and the blood that he had no choice but to drip behind from the earlier gunshot wound to his shoulder. He would survive that so long as it didn’t get infected, if he could make it through the rest of the night. He kept his eye on the northern star for direction as he tried to flee as quietly as possible through the forest near Audinghen. He could hear the sound of the beach approaching and a moment later, he broke through the last row of trees. A hill sloped sharply down and the inky black water of the Channel stretched before him.

Cullen braced himself as he started down the hill, trying not to fall before sliding down the sandy soil to the beach below. He landed hard, jolting his knees as they took the landing and he grit his teeth through a groan. His shoulder ached but he forced himself onward. The moon glinted off the reflecting water; the only light apart from the stars in the sky as even Calais to the north was rendered dark from the blackout.

He fished in his pocket for a flashlight and quickly signaled on the beach three rapid clicks of light and hoped the Germans behind him wouldn’t catch up in time for he and his accomplice to be on their way back to Blighty.

When no answering light met his signal in either direction, Cullen swore and hoped she was alright. He started further down the beach, westward, away from Calais and tried to signal again. The dogs were getting close again and Cullen knew he would be no match for the rapid fire bullets from the German weaponry. The moon wasn’t full, so he had the advantage of being able to hide in the shadows of sand if he needed to, but with his injury, he’d really prefer not having to roll around in sand.

“Damn it all, Cassandra.” He muttered under his breath as he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of light. Behind him, the dogs had reached the hilltop he had rolled down and he could hear the Germans looking for him.

He couldn’t risk shining the light again to give away his position, but nor could he remain where he was. Cullen forced himself forward and the beach gave way to rocks and water as the tide came in sharply. He splashed through the water and ahead of him, maybe a hundred meters, he saw a quick flash of light. He hoped it was as he thought and moved forward, the beams of the German torches behind him.

He moved across the sand faster when he recognized Cassandra’s shape in the darkness.

“Where the hell have you been?” He whispered furiously.

“Not getting shot, unlike you.” She replied equally quiet. “Help me get the boat in the water.”

With great effort, they were able to pick up and move the boat across the rocks into the water. It was a small craft that they had hidden earlier the night before under a camouflaged tarp that blended in with the sand. It had an outboard motor, enough to get them far enough in the Channel that they could be then picked up by a maritime yacht that the Special Forces had requisitioned for this use. No one would ever be the wiser, assuming they could get that far.

Cullen’s shoulder burned with the effort of it and the German voices grew closer. They tried to be as quiet as possible but the splashing in the water couldn’t be muted. A torch beam swept over them and Cassandra froze.

“Halt!”

“Keep moving. Stay low.” Cullen ordered and Cassandra nodded quickly, shoving against the side of the boat as the water swelled around their ankles with the tide.

“Halt! Bleib wo du bist!”

Cullen groaned as the boat finally caught in enough of the surf to float on its own and avoid scraping on the bottom. His shoulder pulsed with agony even as their pursuers demanded they stay where they were.

“Get in.” He ordered Cassandra and continued to push the boat further out into the water. Cassandra scrambled in and reached for him the same time the Germans opened fire from the beach, keeping a few of them from following after. It was chaos as the dogs continued their barking, pulling at their leads, as the gun went off beside them. Cullen tried to make himself low but the torchlight was trained right on them.

“Start the motor!” Cullen called out over the waves. “It doesn’t matter about the noise now if we get shot.”

“Alright, get in.” Cassandra said as she moved to the other end of the boat to get the motor started. Around them, bullets were splashing into the water.

Cullen cried out as he was hit in the back and Cassandra moved back to him, forgetting about starting the motor.

“Don’t worry! Get the boat started.” Cullen ordered despite his pain. Behind them, two of the soldiers started into the surf. Cassandra did as he asked and the boat roared to life. She was back at him again and offered her hand.

“Cullen, come on.” She reached for him but he was laboring under the pain of his injury. “Cullen!”

She leaned over the side of the boat as it idled in the surf. The Wehrmacht soldiers were now wading through the water and were close enough to make a quick end to both of them with their pistols if they wanted to. Cassandra swore under her breath and leaned over the side of the boat to try and pull him in with her. He groaned through the lethargy of his injury and protested.

“No, go without me.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s alright. Go.”

Cassandra shook her head, as the Germans gave another order to stay where they were. The outboard motor protesting its idleness.

“Take this.” Cullen pressed something in her hand, the canister of film they had been sent to take and report back with. “Go Cassandra.”

“I will _not_ leave you here.” She said, tears burning her eyes.

Cullen smiled a little as his head lolled back. “It’s alright, my love. Go.”

With his last strength, he pushed her away and floated back into the water out of her reach. Cassandra cried out at the loss of grip on him. A wave swelled over the motor and it took her further out, pulling her further away from him.

“No!” She cried as one of the soldiers was able to grab his bobbing body in the surf. Cassandra gripped the tiller with white knuckles but was unable to get the boat any closer without making herself a target or scraping the boat against the rocky sea bottom.

She watched in the moonlight as they hauled Cullen through the water back to the beach, slow effort considering the tide that continued to take her further away. The tears burned their own salty fire as she saw them toss him back on the beach on his hands and knees. She watched as one of them stood over him and through the sound of the waves could hear only part of his threats. Cassandra covered her mouth with her arm as a pistol was produced and he was threatened again.

Not the sound of the boat’s motor or the waves around her could stifle the sound as the Luger ended Cullen’s life. She called out for him but he would never again hear her and the cold grip of Death sealed itself around her heart as surely as it had stopped his own.

Keeping her eyes on his body left on the beach, she aimed the boat northwest towards England and kept her grip firm around the film canister that Cullen had given his life for. The Reich would pay for this latest murder in the series of all the others. Cassandra prayed for his soul and then turned away when the beach was too far for her to see him, and refocused her mission on home.

 

**One.**

The rain was torrential outside, muted by the roof overhead but not enough to silence it completely. Also, if he were to stick his foot out from under the blanket, he knew the room would be cold so he did not dare move it. Instead he was warmed by both blanket and companion as his wife shifted closer in her sleep to use him as a pillow. Cullen didn’t mind and ran his fingers lightly down her back as he held her close.

He listened to the rain and Cassandra’s breathing as the heating for the house turned on in the distance. It was a Saturday morning, he thought lazily, and was glad for it. He didn’t want to have to get up and rush out the door to work. He rather enjoyed being able to have a lie-in with his wife and there were few mornings as perfect as this one. 

Cullen wasn’t sure how long he lay there in his contentment, but eventually Cassandra shifted and he noticed the change in breathing signalling she was waking up. When he looked down, their eyes met and he gave one of his trademark half-smiles as Cassandra stretched against him before hugging her body closer to his.

“What time is it?” She asked and Cullen glanced at the bedside clock.

“Nearly eight.”

“I’ve slept in, then.” She replied and nuzzled his chest. Cullen hummed an affirmative as he held her closer. “What do you want to do today?”

Cullen knew he had one of two answers. They could get up, have breakfast, and set about cleaning the house or doing other mundane things that married people do on their weekends. Or he could answer differently, the more unexpected way. The way he truly wanted to. So he did.

“Just...this.” 

Cassandra looked up at him and he watched her in all of her wonderful, magnificent beauty. She smiled and leaned up to kiss him.

“Maybe a little of this too, hm?” She asked, her lips centimeters from his. Cullen nodded, lips brushing against hers again for how close they were. Cassandra smiled and kissed him deeply. His hand shifted to hold her against his body while his other one went to run through her silky short-cut hair.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against her mouth as his fingers ran down her spine. She sighed when he touched her, shifting between his legs to rock her hips against his. 

His groan was soft as she adjusted her position over him. Neither cared when the duvet fell away, exposing them to the cool air of the room. They were too focused on one another to care about the chill. Still bare from the night before, it only took minor adjusting and preparation for Cassandra to slide herself over him completely. Cullen groaned as she rocked her hips against his and rose to meet her. She knew how to drag out the torture for him, just as he did for her. For now, he let her control things between them, content enough to pursue his own torture later. Cassandra gripped the headboard with one hand and balanced herself using his shoulder with the other. Cullen gripped her hips and groaned the deeper he went inside of her.

Cassandra moved faster over him, losing control of her breath as it went erratic. Her eyes were closed and her head was tipped back, exposing her torso for him. Cullen stared at her as she rode him and he had never seen a more wonderful sight. He bit his lower lip trying to make himself last longer for her as he concentrated on reaching the spot that always sent her over the edge. His hand shifted from her hips to touch her most sensitive spot and Cassandra called out his name as she dug her nails into his shoulder. Cullen muffled the sound of his own release as her spasms triggered his orgasm. She collapsed gracefully on top of him and kissed him sloppily, skin warmed anew for an entirely different reason.

He was still inside her as he returned to his senses and he pressed a light kiss to her shoulder.

“I love you.”

Cullen could feel her smile against his neck. “And I you.”

He hugged her close and enjoyed the smell of her as around them the rain continued to berate their roof, unnoticed by either of them.


End file.
